


A Matter of Circumstance

by HelicopterDarlings



Category: Huntik: Secrets & Seekers
Genre: 5 + 1 Things, Bechdel Test Pass, F/M, Female Friendships, Gen, Multi, Polyamorous relationship, mentions of old scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 18:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6819997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelicopterDarlings/pseuds/HelicopterDarlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are moments, rare ones, when Dante looks at Zhalia and wonders what she’s thinking. A passing remark, remnants of a smile curling at the edges of her lips, and he can’t quite get up the courage to ask her, Who are you?</p><p> </p><p>Or – five times people were reminded that Zhalia had a life outside the Foundation and one time they reminded her of it</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my drafts since last year, and I've only just got around to writing it to get rid of the writer's block. But hey! I wanted for it be clear that Zhalia has had a life before the Foundation, possibly eve outside of the Organization, and I've had a lot of headcanons surrounding that idea that it coalesced into this monster.
> 
> hover over the tagalog texts for translations, and if you didn't read the tags, Scarlett and Montehue and Tersly are in a polyamorous relationship. just throwing that out there.

 

* * *

 

_"The truth is a matter of circumstance. It's not all things, to all people, all the time. And neither am I."_

\- Natasha Romanoff / Black Widow, Captain America: The Winter Soldier

* * *

-5

If anyone asked Sophie if she knew anyone who was fluently multilingual, she'd say _I am one_. She'd say, _I've been taught languages ever since I was old enough to understand._ She'd say, _I can continue a conversation and translate things without looking up a reference._

(She doesn't say _I can read, write and speak multiple languages; dead ones, light ones, lost words, phrases you've only ever dreamed of, words your great-grandmother grew up with, root words and conjunctions embedded in my cells_ -)

People nod, her teachers commend her and fellow students just _look at her, this kid is taking twelfth grade Latin even though she's barely in her double digits_. They see her, this kid with nervous hands, arms always full of books, and are envious, impressed, and indifferent.

She pays them no mind, and continues to read, speak and write. Words are words, she reasoned. They made more sense than most people do.

She keeps a list in her head, of people who loved words and languages just as much as she did. And as all lists kept by Sophie, this one had Specific Requirements for people to be on this list. These Specific Requirements are:

One, they must know at least three languages.

Two, they must learn at least one language for fun.

Three, they should be fluent in reading and writing in at least two of their languages.

Four, English and/or their mother language don't count in accordance to requirement number three.

For a long time, her list consisted of only her, Santiago and LeBlanche. Between the three of them, nine languages were spoken in the villa while Sophie was growing up (English, French, old French, archaic Latin, Spanish, Japanese, ancient Greek, Mandarin, and Italian).

Over time, Sophie would add more people to her list. Dante Vale, Clements, most of the Casterwill family members, Scarlett Byrne, Cathy Lambert-

( _I had to minor in Latin for my medical coursework_ , Cathy confessed to Sophie over brunch, during her weekend-long stay in Ireland getting to know Lok's family. _I didn't expect to like it so much, but Mom encouraged me to take it on as a hobby after I finished pre-med._ )

Zhalia would have eventually made her list, but it was a long time before Sophie even _considered_ adding her to it, thinking that the woman was only good in imitating accents, like that one mission in Barbados where Zhalia pretended to be a tour guide and adopted a Jamaican _patois_ using gratuitous Barbadian slang the whole time. She wondered how Zhalia's vocal cords, used to Vienna's clipped German accent, managed to roll out those vowels.

She doesn't know if it was her initial petty hate of the dark-haired woman that made her overlook that time she pretended to be a Russian folk singer; or when she dropped Klaus' name in a scientific institution in Munich; or that one time during girl's night that Scarlett got Zhalia so drunk she kept slipping into Korean (which- _pretty weird_. If anything, Sophie thought she would've been muttering in Dutch), but Sophie didn't include Zhalia in her list for a long time, even after they defeated the Professor.

Now, sitting in a very cozy balcony, safe from thugs and the sweltering Manila heat, Sophie tried not to choke on her _halo-halo_ as she overhears Zhalia talk to the Filipino landlady, Ligaya, in (from what she could tell) _unaccented_ Tagalog.

Sophie tears her eyes away from where Lok is painstakingly describing Den's blackeye in order to shoot a glance at Zhalia who is, unmistakably, talking to Ligaya in Tagalog.

"[Nako Ineng, bakit ba kasi naisipan ninyong dumaan doon? Mga turista pa naman kayo](ao3.org)." The middle-aged woman puts her hands on her hips. Even though Sophie can't understand what was being said, the tone of Ligaya's voice is clear enough that she seems more maternally angry than anything.

Zhalia, kudos to her, looks the part of a worried sister, her eyes starting to water. From this distance, Sophie can't tell if it's from the heat or just a testament to her acting ability. "[ _Hindi rin po kasi namin inaakala na may_ gang war](ao3.org). [_Biglaan nalang po nasama sa suntukan yung kasama namin_](ao3.org)," she says, gesturing to Den who was staring at them. Den, for his part, nudges Lok in the ribs as the blond tried to poke the edges of his blackeye.

They were sent on a routine inspection in the Philippines, checking up on a research unit that was rumored to be smuggling amulets to former Blood spirals in Australia. They managed to secure the Foundation research unit and incapacitate the Blood spiral thugs that were holding them captive and taking their research, only for them to _somehow_ get in the middle of a gang war on the way back.

She never knew how dangerous a teenager with knives and a grudge match can be, let alone a whole group of them.

Unable to use their magic in a big crowd, Den ended up with an impressive shiner, Lok had a few broken ribs from pushing him out of the way of a barreling kid. Sophie and Zhalia had bruises all over.

Lok, Sophie and Zhalia discretely used Everheal when trickling away from the crowd, but Den had to keep his blackeye for show. Ligaya was livid when she saw it, but unsurprised, as though people routinely got beat up in their area every day.

Ligaya then went back inside the house. Zhalia leans on the railing next to Sophie.

"She's surprised we got off with just a blackeye," Zhalia says. She bunches up her sticky hair and lets it fall to her left shoulder, exposing her sweaty neck to what small breeze there is.

Lok snorts, and then coughs as Den pokes him in the ribs. His Everheal was still a little rusty, not quite doing the trick.

Sophie keeps on nursing her _halo-halo_ , the sweetness of the cold dessert relieving her headache. "Where did you learn to speak Tagalog?" she asks, in a tone that she intends to be conversational but comes out sounding like a clipped accusation.

"College," Zhalia answers.

Ligaya comes out with an icepack for Den, preventing her from interrogating Zhalia further. Zhalia and Ligaya keep talking in rapid Tagalog, Sophie making out a few words like, _[balik](ao3.org)_ , research and  _[sandali](ao3.org) _ before she gives up on listening wholly, focusing on the cold dessert in her hands.

Sophie spent the rest of her time finishing her dessert by thinking at the randomness of how Zhalia even managed to learn Tagalog. It wasn't a popular language to learn, let alone an easy one. Austronesian-based languages had a different structure than most western ones, and the main reason why people would rather learn Chinese or Japanese rather than Southeast Asian dialects.

Ligaya then turns to them. " _Pasok_ , inside the house now."

Lok and Den shuffle, going inside to get away from the heat, but Zhalia held Sophie back. "I need to go back; they had some files left in their computers I didn't have time to delete."

"Are you crazy? We couldn't even handle them when we were all there!" Sophie exclaims. "An- you're going back to that street, aren't you?" she asks, referring to the street where the gang war broke out.

"I can handle a few alley fights. Besides, I doubt they'd follow me to the base."

Zhalia's already halfway to the gate. Sophie knows that she couldn't stop her even if she wanted to. Zhalia always seemed to be taking risks for the team now, staying back after fights, scouting areas.

She's not blind, she knows Zhalia's making up for her absence during the Spiral war. Reading people's body language is almost the same as reading a book, and Zhaia's actions are a huge neon sign saying _don't worry about me,_ and _I'm sorry that I needed to go, left you guys alone_.

Sophie can't believe she's still beating herself up about it, and she can't believe she doesn't know how to reassure her that she doesn't have to prove anything. Dante probably would, but the two haven't talked to each other in person for a long time now.

She lets Zhalia go.

"Write up the mission report while I'm gone," Zhalia says, closing the gates behind her.

"Do I include the fight or…?"

"You could, but then you'd be the one to talk to Mom."

Sophie blanches at the thought of explaining to Dante about their injuries. "Actually I think this is going to be the shortest report I'll write."

Zhalia hums, and goes.

It wasn't until Sophie went back inside the house that she realized she hadn't asked Zhalia what she was doing in college in the first place, or why she would even learn a foreign language there. Her train of thought suddenly goes on different tracks and she doesn't know which one to follow, which question to speculate on.

As payback for not elaborating further, she writes down _Zhalia uses her skills as a polyglot to navigate around the Philippines_ , hoping that somebody from the higher-ups would notice this little tidbit of information.

( _Zhalia threatened her with bodily harm when she received the letter of recommendation a few days later, requesting her to send a complete list of all the languages she knew._

" _What did I ever do to you, Princess?" Zhalia says._

" _Nothing I didn't deserve," Sophie replies. "Now go on and list it down, I want to cross-reference all the ones I know.")_

-4

Tersly is mad.

No, not mad. Tersly is absolutely _livid_. Tersly is _vibrating_ with anger. Hands clenched, death glare, the works.

Montehue is relieved that all this sudden rage isn't placed on him.

If it was a normal day, Montehue would whip out his Snapchat, take a few pics and send it to everyone in his contacts, immortalizing the way that Tersly's face transitions from red to purple.

But it wasn't a normal day, and standard procedure calls for all phones to be turned off during interrogation. If he took out his phone even once, Lorna from Statistics would rip him a new one, if she couldn't see him.

As it is, Montehue is sitting there quietly, reading the brain scans and vital monitors, ready to restrain Tersly from punching out the interrogation windows and the man inside currently interrogated by Lorna. Teien Casterwill would have been called, but the man ( _Solo's the name_ , he had said, all teeth and chiseled jawline, _get it right_ ) is a non-seeker, and Teien had her hands tied with post-war cleanup to even bother.

Solo was apprehended by Montehue and Tersly when he managed to break into one of the Foundation safe houses in Budapest, obtaining several Meso-titan amulets that Tersly had painstakingly collected for months.

Montehue had taken a leave from his museum duties and helped Tersly follow Solo's trail to Vermont, like the understanding boyfriend he is. And when Tersly expressed his desire to send Solo's cocky ass to the HQ for interrogation, he agreed- like the understanding boyfriend he is.

Of course, he didn't anticipate how difficult the man would be to interrogate.

"Mr. Solo, those amulets were of historical importance, and thus fall under government jurisdiction. The amulets technically belong to the government, and the government reserves the right to collect them." Lorna looks tired and obviously annoyed, after spending two days rehashing the same argument with an arrogant pretty boy. A girl can only take so much bullshit a day.

Solo smiles again. "The 'government', really? The same government that tricked the archaeologists in Alexandria to get access to their maps? Oh yes," he says to an unimpressed Lorna, "I've read the research files your boy has hidden in Budapest.

"I mean don't get me wrong," he gestures as much as the shackles allow him to, "I'm all in for this history nerd fight club thing you guys have going on. It's nice to have hobbies."

Montehue feels Tersly's rage-vibes intensify from across the room. He sneaks a look at Lorna, contemplating. He pulls his phone out slowly and opens the camera app.

"But ancient artifacts are a free-for-all, especially when it comes to art dealing businessmen like me and glorified grave robbers like you."

Someone up there must have guided his finger when he took a picture, because on the screen is Tersly, eyes flashing behind his glasses, murderous rage evident in his whole body and blurred hand punching the steel desktop of the interrogation room- a perfect snapshot of the moment before Tersly lets out an incomprehensible scream, having broken several bones in his right hand.

It is a testament to how important he is to Montehue that he rushes Tersly to the emergency room first before sending the picture to everyone in his contacts. He then sends a copy to Scarlett's e-mail (Re: your boyfriend's boyfriend in beast mode) and Snapchat:

_He's gone off the deep end. So proud 3_

His phone beeps. Scarlett sent him a selfie, her smiling, index finger and thumb in a circle.

_Made my day. Xoxo to u both._

* * *

They resume interrogation the next day. Montehue is surprised that Tersly stubbornly came back, even though his hand is in a cast and the HQ nurse told him to stay in the emergency room, but even more surprised when Dante is in the chamber, animatedly chatting with Zhalia.

Montehue distantly remembers that the man is currently on a week-long leave, the leave he reserved _months_ ago, in order to spend time with Zhalia _away_ from any Foundation business.

He strides over to Dante, ready to give the man a lecture about _not spending time with his girlfriend_ _for fuck's sake_ until Dante- recognizing the righteous rage in his eyes- says, "Don't look at me; she's the one who dragged me back here."

Zhalia takes a sip of her coffee and stays silent. Montehue sighs, and pulls up a chair. "Why?"

"I was curious about the civilian who managed to get past Foundation security," she answers, and pauses. "That, and I wanted to see Tersly in action. Nice shootin' rex." Zhalia raises her coffee cup to him.

Montehue grins.

It wasn't too long before Lorna came in the room, Solo already in the chair. Dante is on the brain scans, Zhalia is looking up Solo's files from her phone (he doesn't think it's Google, but he doesn't want to ask about it) and Montehue is on Tersly-sitting duty.

Lorna and Solo start another debate. Tersly's anger resumes full force. Montehue eyes his clenched hand on the steel desktop, and contemplates on sending up one of those bulky first-edition Holotomes to see if Tersly can manage to break the copper plating. At first he didn't believe that Tersly would be the type to break things when he's mad, but Clements shared an anecdote during their college days in Oxford, about a sleep-deprived Tersly working on his thesis and throwing a whole set of 1500-page hardcover encyclopedias out the window and onto the heads of some members of the Bullingdon club, who didn't remember the incident the following morning.

Zhalia lists off Solo's resume, from what Montehue assumes are an online forum for secret spies. "Antiquities dealer, three-time Regional Gymnastics champion, contacts in Beijing, banned from Dubai- oh, we have something in common-"

Dante turns around on his swivel chair. "Dubai? Why are you banned from Dubai?"

"-brown belter in karate," Zhalia continues, "knows how to handle four types of guns, loathes Disney movies, and _oh_ ," she hands the phone to Dante.

"Birth name is _Marco Solo_ ," Dante reads off, and he lets out a deep chuckle. "His mother saw the chance and took it." He hands the phone back.

Tersly tears his eyes away from the bickering forms of Lorna and Solo to stare at Zhalia. "Where did you get that information?"

"Wikipedia, but for spies."

"Ah." He resumes glaring at Solo inside the interrogation room, who was now animatedly gesturing. Lorna is visibly pissed off.

Montehue personally thinks that it sounds like a dating profile but wisely chooses to bite down on his tongue. He's heard the legends of Zhalia's death glares of course, but he's more worried of Dante's rare-as-diamonds jealousy and he doesn't really want to put any dent in his and Zhalia's relationship by implying that his girlfriend is reading off the spy version of Tinder.

Zhalia clears her throat and reaches for the microphone. " _Hello friend_ ," she says in a heavy accent that Montehue can't quite place.

Solo, engrossed in talking to Lorna, suddenly shuts up.

A mechanical beep is heard in Dante's general direction. "Brain scans indicate panic," he says, before shooting Zhalia an accusing look. "You know who he is." A statement, not a question.

Zhalia puts a hand over the microphone. "We had the same trainer, and he was always a sore loser." She glances back at the interrogation room with something like amusement in her eyes.

"Trainer in what?" Dante asks. Zhalia shushes him.

"Well, well," says Solo slowly, looking straight at Lorna. The smile is back, but the cocky attitude is clearly a farce by now, his fingers drumming on the tabletop. "I didn't know Siri's Russian cousin worked for you archaeologists."

Montehue, still confused, turns to Zhalia, who is already walking from the microphone to the interrogation door. He looks at Tersly, who looks back at him, and then to Dante, who just shrugs.

Zhalia closes the door, the lock clicking in place, echoing throughout the chamber. Lorna promptly turns around, her eyes widening at Zhalia's form, not knowing that the Foundation's number one spy was in the other room the whole time. She hides her surprise when Zhalia gives her a look.

"Agent Lorna," she nods to her, voice tilting in heavily-accented English.

Lorna's already standing up. "I'll leave this overgrown weed to you, Agent." Solo looks horrified at the prospect, blue eyes large in his perfectly-sculpted face.

Zhalia occupies the seat Lorna left, scraping the chair on the floor slightly. Solo winces, just a tiny bit.

Lorna closes the door behind her, leans on it, and quickly mouths a " _What the hell_ " to Montehue. He, in turn, points to Dante.

Lorna gapes at the red haired man, who gives her a small wave. She sits next to Tersly and whispers a frantic " _What the fuck_ " to him.

Montehue crosses his arms and leans back on his chair, waiting for a show. But due to Lorna still wearing the earpiece and mouthpiece, they can't hear what Zhalia is saying.

Thus, they are left with watching Solo sweat and lose his shit in front of a poker-faced Zhalia, along with the beeping of the brain scans. Zhalia keeps talking, her movements slow and calculated and Montehue wishes he learned how to read lips.

Solo's full-on trembling now, as though Zhalia's the monster from his deepest, darkest nightmares come to life. Montehue realizes then, that Zhalia is a spy in the sense of the word- not just as a Seeker, but apparently in the non-magical way too, if the way this civilian guy almost shits his pants is an indication.

Zhalia smiles at Solo then, a deadly thing, teeth glinting like knives. Solo whimpers, blessedly quiet in comparison to when Lorna was interrogating him. Montehue can't look away.

The whole scene before them- with Solo ashen-faced and sweating, Zhalia looking as bored and as dangerous as a teenage girl- feels like it's ripped from one of those documentary-style horror movies, when the camera turns to static and all that's left is hearing the character die a painful death offscreen, complete with gurgling and heavy breathing.

Tersly watches all of it, a smile curling at the edges of his lips. Montehue could have sworn his glasses glinted evilly too.

Lorna is leaning slightly forward, hands clenching white on the chair.

Dante isn't looking at the beeping scans anymore, his focus completely on the interrogation room.

For a moment, nothing can be heard except for Solo's heavy breathing and the brain scans beeping.

"Budapest, in the Párizsi Udvar," Solo whispers, the trembling sound of his voice almost lost in the intercom. "There's a secret compartment near the glass ceiling."

Montehue stares disbelievingly at Solo, and at the other occupants in the room. _He cracked in thirty seconds?_

Zhalia straightens in her chair.

"She's a miracle worker," Lorna says, breaking the sudden silence in the interrogation chamber.

"She's my hero," Tersly remarks, uninjured hand coming up to wipe a tear from his eye.

"She's something, alright," Dante adds, quite proudly.

Zhalia comes back inside the interrogation chamber while the guards detain the catatonic Solo.

Montehue opens his mouth, about to question Zhalia ( _what did you say how did you know him when and where did you learn how to do that_ and also, _what the fuck_ ), but Tersly pops up in front of him like an overgrown mushroom, cutting off whatever he means to say.

"That was amazing," he says, left hand outstretched. "I'd offer you the other one, but…"

Zhalia nods and shakes his hand. Montehue spies Lorna discretely leaving the room, probably going back to Statistics, probably intimidated by Zhalia and Dante. He understands.

An intern comes inside, just as soon as Lorna leaves, holding up a bunch of papers in front of Dante who had just stood up. The glow from the monitors light up his face, making Montehue notice the loaded look he fleetingly sends to Zhalia, still entertaining Tersly with her back is turned to him,.

Dante accepts the papers with a heavy sigh.

"I have half a mind to convince you to stay here in headquarters, Zhalia! We've had that bastard in here for three days now, and you managed to make him talk in less than a minute!" Tersly says excitedly. He continues on ranting about the benefits of Zhalia being a permanent fixture in headquarters, unaware of her face souring the tiniest, infinitesimal bit.

Before Tersly gets himself into trouble again, Montehue quickly motions for the intern standing in the corner, waiting for the papers Dante's signing while staring shamelessly at Dante himself.

"Please lead Tersly back to the emergency room, I'm afraid the nurse is going to freak if she finds out he escaped," Montehue explains, pushing Tersly to her. The intern nods.

He turns to Tersly. "You, text Scarlett. She'll drop by Budapest and get your amulets, if you ask nicely." Tersly nods, happy at the prospect of either talking to his girlfriend or getting his amulets back, Montehue's not sure.

He and Zhalia watch them leave. She then notices Dante, still hunched over the table, coffee cup moved aside.

Zhalia blinks. "They found you already?"

"Yes. They. Did." Dante emphasizes, the pen scratches echoing in the almost-empty interrogation chamber. "And if we stay here a moment longer," he says, looking up at Zhalia, "the others will come soon enough."

Zhalia shrugs, an elegant rising of her shoulders. "I got what I wanted. I thought you had an escape plan for this situation?"

"My escape plan involved nobody finding out we're here." He stands, capping the pen and setting it down on the neat stack of papers.

"…You're lucky I know how to use Thoughtspectre."

"You know," Montehue pipes in, "the interrogation room has a doorway out that leads to the back fire exit."

Dante and Zhalia stare at him. He raises his hands.

"Or you could just Thoughtspectre out of here, why not." _God, these people and their dramatic exits._

"Speaking of," Zhalia says to him, "why didn't you just scare him with Fenris and then Simplemind him after?"

Montehue blinks.

-3

Sometimes, when Fate was feeling pretty generous, two people would meet and make each other's lives more meaningful, filled with moments of bliss and solid trust bordering on co-dependency.

These people would know when they're the lucky ones. It's when they turn to that other person and feel a rush of warmth and lightness flow through them, like the sole existence of the other person makes their existence exceed expectations. Clichés like puzzles clicking into place, finding a hidden treasure, and outlandish and cheesy claims of destiny that they would laugh about in public but would accept deep down in their hearts sound plausible and not at all tacky.

These people would know each other's movements, heartbeats, thoughts and emotions as well as they know their own.

Life partners. Soul mates. Or as Pacific Rim would name it, _drift compatible_.

For Lin Storm, that special person, unexpected as it is, is Zhalia Moon.

And the punchline is, they didn't even know each other when they first met. Understandable, as people really don't know other people before meeting them- but they were the kind of people whose reputation lays out their personal red carpet, their own bloody introduction, a foundation for the people to construct their impressions of them.

But Lin didn't meet Zhalia and see the traitor, the spy, one of the top ranking agents in the Huntik Foundation. Zhalia didn't meet Lin and see the young heiress to the Storm family legacy, stretching both into the Seeker world and the civilian one.

Zhalia met Lin, a woman with a fondness for sharp weapons who punches out sexist, rapist douchebags that don't know the meaning of 'no' and Lin met Eliza, a civilian artist who defends herself from switching out drugged glasses and getting away with it even with security watching her.

It was a good thing, that they knew each other as people before they knew each other as Seekers. Saving each other from date-raping assholes probably helped, but that's not the important thing. What's important is _that_ moment is theirs alone, two lone wolves who found an unlikely friend- one who knows both sides of them and accepted it. They had the opportunity to define themselves outside of what other people thought of them as.

Lin Storm wouldn't trade that moment away for all the secrets of the universe.

Finding out that they were both Seekers was just icing on the cake. There were no secrets between the two of them now, and Lin delights in voicing out her opinions on magic and conspiracy theories to secret-keeper Zhalia who in turn would ask her about training the Amazons and whether or not so-and-so from the council of so-and-so doesn't have a high opinion of her. They could freely talk like the young adults they were.

It's amazing, to have someone she could be free with.

Still, Lin worries. She understands that Zhalia has some relationship and daddy issues that she needs to sort on her own time and that she'll stand by whatever choices she makes, but even she worries that Zhalia may be beating herself up too hard over things that she can't control.

Not telling her team about dangerous problems during missions and taking care of it herself, for example.

Lin considers herself a suspicious type, a trait that her grandfather had both admired and abhorred. She had dozens of conspiracy theories, some she would set out to prove when she got older as a way to pass the time. Her attention to detail means that she always, always knows when someone is hiding something.

Zhalia hides a lot of somethings. This was a given. But what Lin didn't expect is one of those somethings would come in the form of a huge scar on her lower back.

"Oh, it's nothing." Zhalia waves it off when Lin, out of breath, points it out during sparring.

"Nothing," Lin repeats as Zhalia stands up and tugs at her tank top. "A stitched scar as wide as my thumb is _nothing_."

Zhalia shoots her a glare, which is sent her way rarely enough that it makes Lin shut up and re-evaluate her next words.

"It's a scar, from a fight. I'm sure you have some of your own, so why should this be any different?"

"Because that is literally the only noticeable scar you have." It's true, Zhalia admitted that her skin healed easily, and most of the wounds that weren't healed by Everheal or the top doctors her father can afford just fade away as very faint pink lines on her skin.

Zhalia doesn't reply, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath.

Lin doesn't stand up from the sparring mat, aware that Zhalia is standing feet apart, bracing herself, feeling very upset and that she may need a sense of superiority so that she won't lash out. She found out very early in their relationship that dealing with Zhalia is like dealing with a spooked animal. A very dangerous, very capable, and very anxious, spooked animal.

Lin also knows that Zhalia knows that dealing with Lin is like dealing with a very stubborn survivalist, wanting to know every detail. Lin never gets her away with her air-of-mystery bullshit, because Zhalia is a walking conspiracy theory. And Lin _knows_ conspiracy theories.

Zhalia opens her eyes and stares at Lin still sitting on the mat. Defeated, she sits down in front of Lin, taking a swig from her water bottle.

"Lightning round, three questions, all indirect," she says.

"No vague answers and no switching subjects," Lin counters.

Zhalia nods. Lin stays silent for a moment before firing off a series of rapid questions.

"Pre- or post-foundation?"

"Pre-foundation."

"Friendly fire?"

"Intentional, but I wasn't the main target."

"Does it still hurt?"

"Not as much as it used to."

Lin nods, cataloguing the information in her brain. She may not have Dante's deducing skills or her grandfather's scarily accurate insight, but she knows how to form basic conclusions.

 _Pre-foundation_ means it was during a stint with the Organization, a mission most likely. Her second answer confirms this, and adds another clue: it wasn't a solo mission, and taking her out wasn't the priority which could mean two things- either she was too young to be considered a threat or she wasn't the threat to be neutralized; ergo, she was protecting something from her own group.

And if it still causes a small twinge of pain even though it looks properly surgical and old, like a years-ago wound, it would mean that it was deep.

Zhalia was wounded (whether she was stabbed or shot at isn't really clear) trying to protect something or someone back when she was still working for the dark side. Lin internally sighs, having confirmation that Zhalia was as reckless and suicidal back then as she is right now, followed by sudden panic after realizing that Zhalia _is_ as reckless and suicidal right now as she was back then.

Lin holds Zhalia's stare, her autumn-like brown eyes looking somber. She decides to stay quiet, letting Zhalia keep her secrets.

She pats her shoulder. "It's okay."

Zhalia nods even though both of them know it's really not.

She worries.

-2

Even though Harrison technically isn't part of the so-called Foundation's number one team, he hangs around and trains with them so often that he's unofficially considered their plus one. It was hard at first, trying to get along with the people you were trying to kill a few months ago, but they managed to form some definition of friendship between them, the kind that forms between children unwillingly dragged to a party for- and full of- grown-ups.

Harrison likes the team. He does. He just finds it very hard to agree with them on some things, like training methods, not pranking unsuspecting people on the street using magic, the unlawful right of pineapple to be on pizza, and-

"What do you mean I have to stop asking Zhalia about everything?" he asks incredulously at Den (instigator), Sophie (traitor), Lok (precious puppy-older brother hybrid he could never be too mad at), and Cherit (traitor), sitting on Sophie's couch like they expected Harrison to give away Bachelor/ette roses or some shit. "She's the only adult in this team." Cherit huffs at the statement.

" _Human_ adult, jeez."

"You still have to respect a girl's privacy, Harrison," says Sophie, twirling a blue marker in her left hand. "Especially when it comes to Zhalia's privacy."

"Is this about the time I tried to hide the baby garter snake in her room? Because I already said that that was a running prank, and I know which of her stuff is off-limits."

"No," Lok says.

"Or is it _the principle of the thing_ ," he says, poorly imitating Sophie's posh accent, "about going into her room without her explicit permission?"

"Nope," Den says.

"The, uh…" Harrison racks his brain. "Hmm… oh! This is about the time I asked her where you were hiding during that hide-and-seek tournament you guys were having, right?"

"Not even close," Cherit says.

"Well, I got nothing."

"It's about her personal business, Harrison!" Sophie stage-whispers and stands up, head brushing the bottom of the banner with the word INTERVENTION scrawled on it. She pushes it away with one hand to properly glare at him. "Stop asking her about it."

Harrison adopts a look of pure disgust. "What makes you think I ask her about those kinds of things?"

Sophie's glare intensifies, and Den lets out a sound that's half-choked laughter and half-gagging. Harrison clamps his mouth shut.

"Sophie's talking about Zhalia's personal business, not Zhalia's _personal_ business," Cherit says, wording it out slowly as though Harrison hadn't already realized the error of his ways.

"Try to calm down; we just want you to stop asking her about it. She's touchy about business," Lok adds.

"And I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want Zhalia to be mad at you." Cherit tries to appeal to Harrison's sister-worship feelings concerning Zhalia but Harrison doesn't rise to the bait, having been trained by the woman herself to recognize verbal manipulation.

He vaguely remembers asking Zhalia about her personal business before she left for it hours ago. Lok hit him with a pillow after the door closed, and Den kept shooting him _holy-shit-how-are-you-still-alive_ looks from behind Cherit before they were all dragged by Sophie out of the room. He shrugged it off at the time thinking that they were about to train but apparently they spent the past few hours planning for this unnecessary intervention-thing.

"You're all crazy. Besides, she would've said if it was bothering her." He crosses his arms and stands feet apart like Zhalia taught him to, to show that he means business and to (hopefully) end the conversation.

"No, she wouldn't have," Den says, palm sliding away from his face to stare at him. Harrison puts his arms to his side, sighing that he can't pull it off half as well as Zhalia could. This confirms it, his brother was dead tired from getting his ass kicked by him during training and now he's being _touchy_. Another glance, and it seems that the rest of the team have the same _we're-sane-so-you-should-listen-to-us_ look his brother currently has. He barely manages to not roll his eyes at their overreaction. He gets up from leaning on the table and goes around it, to create a barrier between himself and the crazy people.

"What is wrong with asking about where she's going? And she answered without so much as a second glance, so I don't think she has anything about me asking about it."

"She was rushing off. Her wrath for you is probably postponed until she comes back," Cherit says, tail waving as he flies up and takes down the banner. Sophie shakes her head at him and jumps over the couch to help Cherit.

"I worry for you sometimes, little bro. Especially when you have that _what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you_ face on," Den says, ruffling Harrison's hair as he walks by, dodging the low kick that Harrison sends his way.

"Wait," Lok asks. "What do you mean she answered?"

"Exactly that."

"What did she say?"

He feels the others pause, unsubtly trying to listen in. What wealth of information could possibly come from Zhalia's answer? "She's going to Turkey," he says flatly.

The team exchanges a Look. Not just a look but a Look, the one that they usually reserve during stealth trainings and missions and sneaking out at night. The same Look that the adults give each other when they think that a child wouldn't understand them.

Feeling annoyed, irritated, and out of the loop, he throws up his hands and goes out of the room, planning to blow off steam by playing Call of Duty. He detours into the kitchen and makes a couple of ham-and-cheese sandwiches for snacks and reflects on the weirdness of the team.

He decides to just ignore their questions if they ever ask him about it again. After all, if he lets slip that Zhalia's the leader of a girl gang in Turkey, they'll probably nag her about it. He doesn't want her to be pestered. Harrison respects Zhalia's privacy above all, and if she has hobbies outside of stealing from ancient ruins, he'll support her.

With the weirdness of the team a while ago, Harrison thinks it's better if she has occasional breaks from them. He'll weather their weirdness for her.

-1

Scarlett sits at the lobby of the museum, sterile white like a hospital waiting room, waiting for the front desk receptionist to finish processing and authorizing her identification papers. She flips through the second-rate art deco magazines kept on the bin next to her and reads to pass the time, trying not to fidget as she crosses her legs. On page eleven, a beautiful wooden bookcase with intricate carved leaves on the side catches her eye, and she makes a promise to herself to buy one like it after she finishes this mission.

Her first, actual mission. A mission full of firsts. First mission abroad, first mission on the week of her birthday, first semi-infiltration mission, and her first mission without the aid of her Holotome.

No, she shouldn't think about it. She'd probably just panic more and she doesn't want the Americans' first impression of her as the European transfer who has a nervous breakdown in the middle of the lobby.

No, Scarlett can do just fine. She can do this mission without the Holotome. She can.

The train of thought concerning what she _can_ do quickly derails into the things she _can't_ do, so she flips the magazine and sees a personality quiz, one that would find out what kind of home aesthetic fits her personality. Skimming through it, she notices that the A options are preppy, the B options are sporty, the C options are modern and the D options are all weird. Scarlett rolls her eyes at the absurdity of it.

 _Here's a personality quiz_ , she thinks. _You are working as a researcher for the Huntik Foundation. They pay well, they have an amazing HR policy, nice dental plan, and they provide you with a device that has everything you'd ever need, a veritable library of knowledge right at your fingertips. It even has a secure connection that can't be traced by any government._

_The only catch about the job is that the danger is above the average for normal researchers, and the device they give you needs to be updated every three years, from the software to the mechanisms of the device itself. For a month every three years, you will have to do your job without looking up anything. What do you do?_

> **Do you:**
> 
> Spend the month re-arranging all the hard copies of your files and take a paid vacation away from your job? You must be methodical, like regular old **CLEMENTS.**
> 
> **Do you:**
> 
> Participate in a hobby, like collecting amulets or arresting the people who take them, and travel across the world with your boyfriend? You must be fun-loving, like **TERSLY.**
> 
> **Or do you:**
> 
> Try to infiltrate a civilian museum-cum-research facility under your own name in order to access their research and use it? You must be insane, like **SCARLETT.**

"Miss Byrne?"

Scarlett looks up and sees a woman with her blond hair tied back, wearing a sleeveless brown blouse and denim jeans. "That'd be me. You must be Charlie Farroway?" The woman's eyes crinkle at the edges as she nods and smiles a brilliant smile. She extends a hand as Scarlett stands.

"The one and only. Come this way, please." Farroway nods to the receptionist as she and her step into the company elevator. No music, much to Scarlett's surprise.

"Employee lounge," Farroway says to thin air. Scarlett raises an eyebrow when she hears a flat voice reply. "Fifth floor, proceeding." The elevator doors close and a hologram flashes on her left, showing buttons for at least 10 floors and a ground floor before illuminating the button on number five and disappearing with another flash.

"Impressive," she remarks. Farroway smiles again, rolling up her sleeves to her elbow. Scarlett returns the smile while trying not to show her panic. She definitely bit more than she could chew. If the rest of this institution had sophisticated tech like this elevator, she'd never get those records now without them identifying her as the perpetrator, at the very least.

"You came in at such an opportune time, Miss Byrne," Farroway says. "We had so much trouble concerning most of the relics that came from old families because we only _just_ found out that most of them are of European descent, and that most of their relics came from over there." Her smile turns rueful. "You'd think they'd actually say that upfront when they donate these things but no, they just had to let us run around and figure it out."

She turns to Scarlett then, her smile crinkling at the corners of her eyes as though she was keeping a particularly good inside joke. "They had sent us some _interesting_ things that we either have no use for or couldn't make sense of." Scarlett decides she likes her, if only for the way that she goes on passionate rants the exact same way as Tersly- exchanging names and hurriedly talking soon after.

"Define interesting." The elevator doors open, and Farroway steps ahead, Scarlett trailing behind her.

Farroway walks through the right hall, as sterile white as the lobby below but punctuated with random paintings on the walls. "There were these brooches, for example. We thought they were cameos at first since they kept it sealed in these fancy-ass boxes, but they just looked like really old curtain holders, figured that the boxes were the real find."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but then another of our European transfers told us they were amulets of some sort. Probably for _ritual purposes_ , she said, but we all know what _ritual purposes_ mean in our line of work."

"There's another European transfer here?" Scarlett asked.

"Yup," Farroway confirmed. "She's from another company, but maybe you've met before? Europe is such a small place compared to the US." She opens a door to reveal an office with long tables strewn about, full of people wearing white coats, one of whom looks up from their workspace and walks towards them. "Oh, here she comes now."

Walking towards them is Zhalia. Granted, it was Zhalia with glasses, a nose ring and brunette dreadlocks, but it was Zhalia nonetheless, and Scarlett can't help but gape.

"Scarlett, this is-"

"Cosima," Zhalia says, gesturing with her ring-covered left hand, fingers splayed, "Cosima Niehaus, from the Austrian Institute of Historical Research. You must be Scarlett Byrne; I don't think we've met." Scarlett can't help but notice how big her eyes are behind her glasses. "Charlie show you around yet?"

"Uh, no. She, um…" Scarlett stares. "I'm sorry… it's just that you look a _lot_ like someone I know."

Her dreadlocks swing as she shakes her head empathetically. "No, no, that's okay. I get that a lot, I guess I just have that kind of face, yeah?" Zhalia/Cosima smile reaches up to her twinkling eyes.

"The world could use more faces like yours, actually," Scarlett blurts out.

Cosima tilts her head. "That's sweet. Well, I have to, like, clean up my desk first before we head downstairs, could you wait for a few?"

"We'll be here."

They watch as she hurriedly shuffles to her desk, hands on her pockets.

Farroway sighs. "Cosima's the current head of research for the inherited antiquities, after it got pretty clear that she's more competent than our permanent staff. She's been here for a week, but sadly, she's leaving tomorrow, so my vacation's up as well."

She pulls out a card from the pocket of her jeans and hands it to Scarlett. "Here's your keycard. Most of the facilities here are controlled by those, it'll open your quarters, the employee lounge, your office and whatnot, but not every door will open." She shrugs. "You know security measures."

"Oh that's fine, Miss Farroway," Scarlett lies. "Saves me from asking everyone whether or not I'm allowed in this room, right?"

Farroway smiles. "Precisely. And it's just Charlie."

"Only if you call me Scarlett."

"Sure. Now, front desk has confirmed your papers downstairs, and your bags are stowed into your room on the sixth floor." She scrolls through her phone, mouth pursed. "However, there's no official e-mail from your foundation about what we're to do with you, so we're going on a limb here and say that it's for those inherited antiquities too, right?"

Scarlett smiles. "Yes,it is actually."

"Okay then." Charlie tucks her phone back in her pocket, apparently satisfied. "If you don't mind me asking, what interest does Europe hold in these trinkets?"

"Well," Scarlett chooses her wording carefully, "they're actually part of a larger set, a collection of sorts. Most of it are scattered around the world, and some designs are similar, so they're not rare. But some are." Charlie raises an eyebrow. Scarlett makes a mental note to learn how to answer vaguely next time. "That's what they tell me anyways," she says, hoping that she wouldn't be questioned further.

"Hey!" Scarlett and Charlie turn to Cosima, coat discarded, bag slung over one shoulder and carrying several folders in one arm. "Charlie, I'm going to steal Scarlett away now, if that's alright with you."

Charlie nods. "Go ahead."

Cosima turns to Scarlett. "I believe your orders were to follow me, so um, follow me."

Scarlett follows.

* * *

"And that's what we've deduced, so far." Cosima lays out all the folders on the wooden table. "It's not something solid, but at least we know where a lot of these amulets came from, geographically-speaking."

Scarlett looks down at her scribbled notes, and back to the neatly-arranged folders. "Well it seems as though most of the information I need is here anyways. Think I'll just spend the rest of my week Xeroxing everything. But what about the duds themselves?"

"Oh, they're letting us keep those, but they requested the boxes. Apparently some had inscriptions that were dated before the war or something, so Charlie's going to showcase them."

"They don't know what they're missing out on." Cosima makes a noise of agreement. Scarlett pulls a folder towards her, and scans through several photos of a Meso-Titan amulet. She reaches for her bag and abruptly drops her hand, remembering that her Holotome isn't there anymore.

Cosima notices the aborted movement. "Do you want to take a picture? Because you can go ahead with it, it's not exactly sensitive information."

"Oh, I don't have a phone." Cosima's eyes widen in horror. "I just sent my old model away for repairs. It's kind of a standard procedure."

"Burners?" Cosima rummages through her bag.

"Not exactly, but it's standard in that every person in our foundation has the same phone." Scarlett looks back at the pictures. "Kind of like if they gave Apple employees their own iPhones."

"But _you_ don't work at Apple. God, no wonder they freaked out," Cosima mutters. "Well, you're in luck because someone wanted to give this to you." She triumphantly pulls out a box and slides it across to Scarlett. "A mutual friend of ours sent me that, with specific instructions for you to open it after I leave."

Scarlett takes it, and notices the ribbon. She raises an eyebrow at a grinning Cosima who puts the folders back in her bag.

"You can take the rest, yeah? My job here's done, at least. Take all of them, if you want, I already took one amulet as a keepsake." She winks, sliding her keycard to open the elevator and waves. "I have to say my goodbyes now." The door closes.

Scarlett turns to the desk and sees that Cosima left her bag. She shakes her head then, and turns back to re-arrange all of her notes. It seems as though she needs to get used to surviving this month using hard copies.

Charlie enters through the other door, followed by a man wearing a suit. "Hey sugar, where's the coffee?" he asks.

"I don't know," Scarlett replies, not looking up. "But if you find it mine's white, no sugar."

"This isn't the meeting room, Stephen," Charlie says, sounding cross. "Scarlett, this is Stephen Riggs, from Accounting. He has no tact or sense of direction, so feel free to kick his ass whenever."

"Charlie," Stephen says, dragging out the last syllable like a little kid pleading.

The elevator door rings. "Whoops, I forgot my-" Scarlett holds out the duffel, still not looking up from her notes. "-bag, thanks, Scarlett." She feels a peck on her cheek, and she looks up to wave at Cosima.

"Bye!"

"Wow," Stephen remarks, "how many hot new interns do you have?"

"Get the fuck out, Stephen." Scarlett hears a door being slammed shut. "God, he's such a pig. I wish I could transfer to Europe instead, get away from here."

"Sexism is universal," Scarlett points out. "Europe has its share of pigs, too."

"Yeah, but at least you have more female researchers there," she sits next to Scarlett and skims over her transcribed notes. "God, can I take you out for coffee next week instead?"

"There's nothing stopping us from bitching about men right now."

"Yeah, but I was kinda hoping to get to know you more in a casual setting." Confusion, before realization dawns on Scarlett. Oh. _Oh_.

She turns to stare at Charlie with a sincerely sad smile. "Oh, Charlie, that's a nice offer, but some other time maybe? My boyfriends are flying over from New York next week," Charlie's eyes widen, "and they'd like to get a single date before we go flying our separate ways again."

Charlie puts her hand to her mouth. "Oh God, I keep propositioning straight women, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I'm pansexual, actually."

"Really? Because Cosima's bi, and in a relationship with a guy from New York too."

Scarlett takes her hand away from her face and pats it. "Try your luck with the next European transfer that comes along, yeah?"

"What are the odds of them being single and gay?"

Scarlett makes a mental note of the Seekers that she knew. "Probably a bit higher than you think."

* * *

"Happy birthday, Scarlett!"

Smiling, she accepts the bear hugs from Montehue and Tersly, a second more than what is probably socially acceptable. God, she missed them, and it's only been a few weeks. She couldn't understand how Zhalia copes with it all the time.

They release her, and the three of them settle down on the cushioned chairs, the soft fairy lights of the café illuminating the cream-colored tables. It feels like one of her happiest dreams.

"So, were we the first to greet you?" Tersly asks, taking off his scarf as Montehue orders for all of them.

"Physically, yes."

"What? No! Who got to you first?"

"Cathy, Mrs. Lambert, and Zhalia." Her new phone dings, and she pulls it out to read the message. "You beat Lin, though."

"Ooh, shiny new phone," Montehue comments. "Is that a birthday gift?"

"Zhalia's," Scarlett confirms. The two men exchange a look. "She sent it to the museum, coded it herself."

"Does it have Spy Wikipedia?"

"Spy Wikipedia?"

Tersly slides Scarlett's cinnamon latte to her, and takes a sip from his cappuccino. "Zhalia used a phone like that two weeks ago, when she interrogated Solo-"

"That asshole," Scarlett and Montehue say in unison.

"-and read things off his file, scared the bastard to admission," Tersly continues. Scarlett blinks. She didn't know that Zhalia was in New York. "So? Does it have a Spy Wikipedia?"

"I don't think so," she says, as she presses the app that hides the spy apps and changes the screen interface from that of a portable Holotome to a normal phone screen. "I don't think I know what you're talking about, but speaking of Solo-"

"That asshole," Montehue and Tersly say in unison.

"-I got your amulets," Scarlet remarks, patting her shoulder bag. Tersly's face lights up and Scarlett smiles. "I hope I got them all, though. Getting Gybolg up there was tricky."

Tersly leans to Scarlett, almost knocking down his cappuccino, and pecks her on the lips. "You are the best girlfriend ever and I hope you live the longest and happiest life anyone has ever known."

Montehue pouts and laughingly pulls Tersly down to his seat. "I thought I was your best girlfriend ever."

"That was before I found out you prefer DC over Marvel."

Montehue's guffaw fills up the space between them like a cloud of happiness. "You'll switch sides as soon as you see Aquaman." He leans over and kisses Scarlett as well. "Scarlett likes DC too."

"I love superhero movies in general, but not as much as I do you two."

They all grin, Montehue lays down two heavy boxes on the table.

"Time for presents!"


	2. plus One

+1

There are moments, rare ones, when Dante looks at Zhalia and wonders what she's thinking. A passing remark, remnants of a smile curling at the edges of her lips, and he can't quite get up the courage to ask her, _Who are you?_

Sometimes it's in the middle of a battle, when Dante observes how she moves- mostly out of strategy, partly out of wonder. He's never seen anyone fight as graceful and calculated as she did. No matter how many twists and turns she delivers the enemy always stays on the ground, and she doesn't even break a sweat. She does complicated kicks and hits in mid-air, and they have tag-team moves where he throws her at the enemy like a missile. He fights with her as easily as breathing, like the battlefield was a ballroom and all they were doing was dancing.

Sometimes it's while watching a movie, whether it's just the two of them or with the group. He's never seem anyone look at the screen with such a practiced blank look like she did. The others think she's disinterested at the indie sci-fi movie, but he sees the way her hand twitches when they talk about robotics and AI. Dante already knew how the movie would end, but he was surprised when Zhalia leaned to him and whispered the contrary. Her commentary turned out to be the correct one, when the movie ended. He doesn't know what that means.

Sometimes it's in the messages they send each other, scribbles and notes and doodles scattered throughout their Logosbooks. The first time she wrote his name was in shaky cursive, reflecting her thoughts during the current time. The rest of their correspondence has her handwriting in precise, slanting script. Her doodles were different from her sketches, and her sketches were different from her drawings. Solwing's feathers were as glossy as he remembered it, captured mid-flight by Zhalia's colored pencils. She doesn't know he keeps his original Logosbook still, for personal reference.

Sometimes it's when she speaks a different language. Sometimes it's when she reveals her contacts and covers, having a different one in every area code. Sometimes it's when she starts to rely on her left shoulder during a long battle or training session, or her knee aching every time a storm's brewing. Sometimes it's when she trains the Amazons, with a solid determination of a general, or a mother. Or both. Sometimes it's when Harrison covers up for her. Sometimes it's when she reveals knowledge outside of ancient history, outside of myths and legends.

And then there are times like these, where she affixes objects with a hundred-yard stare, and Dante knows that there is a part of her past that he can't touch, if ever. He's learning to accept it, now.

"You can RSVP, you know," he says, as Zhalia turns the envelope in her hands again, Zhalia Moon emblazoned on the back, the gold script hitting the light and shining. They were left alone, for now, as Cherit keeps the kids entertained in a Mario Kart competition upstairs. "It's not a death sentence."

Zhalia opens it again, pulling out the tulle-covered card inside. "There may be former Organization agents there. Or this might be sent by the Blood spirals." Lying. Avoiding.

"There won't be and you know that." Dante pushes the teacup to her. She doesn't drink, instead reads the invitation for the twelfth time. Her eyes skim through it, and Dante feels a headache coming on. "Who gave you the invitation, Zhalia?"

She stiffens. "A colleague of mine, I told you."

"You know, it doesn't hurt to call other people friends." He tries to catch her eye.

Zhalia glares at him. "We haven't talked in years."

"Yet they still sent you an invite. Friends do that, too."

"I'm not their friend anymore." Petulant.

"You haven't changed that much."

"And how would you know?" Accusing.

Dante shrugs, sensing that the conversation was about to go on a downward slope. "I just do."

Silence reigns over them for a few more moments. Dante finishes his tea. Zhalia closes the card again, re-folding the tulle as it was before.

"…I don't know if I should really go." Her admission echoes in the room even though the statement was barely a whisper. So that's what it is.

Zhalia isn't a complicated puzzle. If she was, Lok would've figured her out a long time ago. Dante still hasn't.

"I won't tell you what to do because I don't want to fight you over this," he says, "but I _think_ you should go. I just hope that's enough of a distinction."

"They don't know anything, Dante."

He sits next to her, leaving a space between them so that her bubble won't burst. "You're not going to bring any danger to your friends, even civilian ones."

"And how would you know?" Soft.

"Because _they_ know better."

Zhalia's tea has grown cold. He takes the teacup and spills it on the sink, then fills it up again. Distantly, he hears Sophie cry out in victory, and sets the cup in front of Zhalia.

She takes a sip, then. Setting down the envelope on the table, she cradles the cup with both hands. "I think I'll go, this time."

Dante smiles. "You should." He doesn't say anything else as Zhalia drinks the rest of her tea, scared that any remark he makes might be the wrong thing to say.

The teacup clings as Zhalia sets it down and kicks her feet up on the sofa. Dante catches her as she leans into him, setting his head on top of hers.

"I don't think I'll bring a plus one," she whispers.

"You sure you can do this alone?" he asks softly.

"I need to."

Dante closes his eyes then, and sinks into the sofa. The silence washes over them both and he almost nods off to sleep when he feels Zhalia chuckle.

"What?"

"Do you think it'd be awkward going to their wedding knowing I've slept with both the bride and the groom?"

Dante's eyes fly open.

"Oh come on, it was college. You seriously thought I wouldn't experiment?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment :D


End file.
